Every day, for the last eight months, I have passed by a rather large house on Ellsworth Avenue. It is tucked back from the street, buffered by a low hedgerow and a gently sloping lawn, hidden from its neighbors by a row of pines on the right, and various trees and shrubs on the left. It is old, orange brick, with black shutters framing the windows and a large, comfortable front porch spanning its width, its roof held aloft by four white, wooden columns. Some days, I catch a fleeting glimpse of the occupants as they get the day’s paper, or perhaps sweep the front porch.

I know the house well, but not simply from my journey. In what seems like a lifetime ago, I spent a great deal of time within its walls. As the home of a good friend, it was a headquarters of sorts for our circle. Though the house was large, we spent most of our time on the third floor, in a relatively bare room, save for some furniture and a small garden of plants that occuppied the window ledge. There were two other rooms on the floor, but they were only for storage–dusty and dark and rarely entered. It was cold in the winter and hot in the summer, but, being young, we didn’t mind much. We were an odd bunch, I suppose, a group of girls from an all-girls private school and boys from the Catholic school, culled, in part, from a city-wide youth group. We were, as many youths tend, straight edge. While our classmates were off drinking and smoking, we were on the third floor, watching movies or perhaps playing cards.

I fell away from the group after a few years, for reasons I cannot quite remember (though likely caused by, at least in part, a dating relationship). I reckon I’ve not even seen one of them since (most likely because they have, like many, moved away). There are days, as I pass, that I wonder if I might my friend on the porch, and if I did, if I would even recognize her. And I imagine that the interior of the house looks the same after all these years, her parents sitting at the table in the kitchen, reading the paper and sipping whiskey and soda. But these are nothing more than fleeting thoughts, memories triggered by a familiar sight, and I move along, as I do every day.

Posted on 28 December 2007